Читать книгу Stolen Secrets - Sherri Shackelford - Страница 14

Lucy desperately searched for Jordan. Why had the gunfire stopped? Where was the shooter?

A buzzing sounded in her ears. She started toward the exit, but her muscles rebelled. Her limbs were heavy, and her blood moved sluggishly through her veins. A sticky lethargy dragged her into a dense fog.

“Lucy.” Jordan scrambled toward her, though his voice seemed to be coming from a great distance. “It’s clear. He won’t be back. Not with the police on the way.”

His brief, bone-crushing embrace cleared the haze, and she welcomed the pain.

Sitting back, he tucked two fingers beneath her chin. “You’re hurt.”

She touched the spot and her fingers came away red. “It’s nothing.”

Her hands were shaking, and she stared at them as though they belonged to someone else. The faint wail of sirens sounded in the distance, and she nearly wept with relief.

Jordan stood and crossed to the counter, then returned with a handful of napkins. He pressed the crumpled wad against her cheek, and she winced.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

She caught his concerned gaze, and her pulse tripped. Jordan was not the man she’d pictured in her head. The way Brandt had described him, she’d been expecting a doddering computer geek with a pocket protector, a horseshoe of thinning hair and a circle of white tape repairing the bridge of his glasses. The one grainy photo she’d managed to find on the internet had only hinted at the man crouched beside her.

Jordan did not wear glasses, and there was nothing doddering about him.

He was handsome.

Awareness jolted through her, and she shoved the unwelcome feeling aside. After the initial shock and grief of losing Brandt, she’d retreated into numbness. Feeling nothing was better than feeling the pain.

A teeth-rattling shiver traveled the length of her body. “I’m c-cold.”

“Take this.” Jordan shrugged out of his jacket and draped the material around her shoulders. “The paramedics will check if you need stitches. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“My ankle, I think.”

“Let me take a look.” He gently touched the slight swelling. “It’s not too bad.”

She glanced at her engagement ring, and her stomach clenched. Brandt had tumbled into her life with all the chaotic enthusiasm of a golden retriever puppy. He’d been warm and affectionate, passionate and quick-tempered. She’d been charmed, dazed and knocked for a loop. In her family, affection was reserved, and praise was tempered. With Brandt, everything had been overwhelming and captivating.

Her friends and family didn’t understand her grief for someone she’d dated for only six months. They thought the engagement was rushed. They hadn’t gotten a chance to know him before he traveled overseas. They hadn’t gotten to read his emails and Skype with him. They hadn’t gotten to see the two of them together beyond a few events and a hasty farewell party. But from the moment she’d seen Jordan this morning, she’d sensed he recognized the depth of her loss.

The sirens grew louder, and Jordan grimaced. “When the police get here, it’ll be like someone kicked the ant bed. They’ll swarm us. Don’t make any sudden moves.”

Lucy glanced at the clock. Not even two minutes had passed. That first shot had changed the course of so many lives in the blink of an eye.

“O-okay.”

“You’re in shock,” he said, and she focused on his calm reassurance. “Take a few deep breaths. You’ll be okay.”

You’ll be okay.

Such an odd thing to say. Your fiancé is dead, but you’ll be okay. Someone tried to kill you, but you’ll be okay. Your world is falling apart around you, but you’ll be okay.

A deafening cacophony of emergency vehicles sent her head pounding. Tires screeched. Voices called. She was separating from herself, viewing the events from a distance, as though recalling a nightmare instead of living one. For the first time she noticed her cheek was throbbing. She’d been numb to the pain until now.

Her phone buzzed, and she automatically glanced down. A text alert flashed on the screen followed by a photo.

Someone had taken a picture of the shattered coffee shop window from the street.

A sense of horror enveloped her. A part of her had wanted to believe that she was connecting dots that weren’t supposed to be connected. She had a vivid imagination, after all. She always had her head in the clouds.

“You did good back there,” Jordan said, his words barely registering through the cloud of shock. “You didn’t lose your cool.”

Another message appeared. She blinked rapidly and the letters blurred at the edges. This threat was immediate and shockingly real.

Are you ready to meet?

A second photo appeared. The outside of her house. This wasn’t the end.

This was the beginning.

Jordan paced.

The aftermath of the shooting was like watching a film of something exploding, then viewing that same film in reverse. Just as quickly as the gunman had thrown them into chaos, law enforcement had arrived and gathered the pandemonium into a crude sort of order.

Everyone had a task. Everyone had something to do. Everyone but Jordan.

As the time ticked away, he paced. He scowled. He glanced at his phone for the hundredth time.

Playing the role of patient bystander was outside of his skill set.

An older, heavyset cop approached him. “You Jordan Harris?”

“That’s me.”

“You can see your wife now.”

Jordan started. “Lucy?”

The cop frowned. “You got more than one wife?”

“Nope. Uh, lead the way.”

There’d be time enough to sort the details later. Knowing Lucy was in danger had taken a decade off his life.

Perched on a stretcher in the back of the ambulance, she had a bandage on her cheek, and the paramedics had wrapped her ankle. To his relief, she appeared exhausted but otherwise not seriously harmed.

The officer glanced between them. “The detective in charge is finishing up with another witness. He’ll speak with you both as soon as he can.”

The older cop turned away.

A black SUV with tinted windows pulled into the parking lot, and Jordan stowed his phone. Local law enforcement wasn’t going to be pleased about having their jurisdiction usurped, but this was a matter of national security.

He reached for Lucy. “Let’s go.”

“Wait… What?” She gestured with her thumb. “Aren’t we supposed to stay?”

“Nope.” He glanced at her ankle. “Can you walk?”

“I, uh… I think so. Maybe.”

He reached for her, letting his hands hover near her shoulders. “This will be easier if I carry you. Are you okay with that?”

“I guess, but I’m too heavy.”

He scooped her into his arms.

At the feel of her, a shock ran through his arms and landed with a sizzle in his chest.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve got a Bowflex.”

Lucy chuckled. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m very manly.” Her laughter warmed him, and one edge of his mouth kicked up. “I also chop wood and jog uphill carrying sacks of concrete mix.”

She looped her arms around his neck. “Now I know you’re pulling my leg.”

He didn’t mind adding a touch of levity to the moment. No one had been seriously injured. They were alive. Given the past few months, there hadn’t been many light moments for either of them.

As they approached the SUV, the driver’s door swung open. An agent whose name escaped Jordan’s memory unfolded from his seat.

“Agent Harris, we met once before.” The man opened the rear door. “I’m Luke Westover.”

Jordan mentally snapped his fingers. Westover had the sort of Midwestern captain-of-the-football-team good looks that guaranteed a “swipe right” on the dating apps. They’d met during a briefing in Pakistan the previous year.

The agent leaned toward Lucy and handed her an ice pack. “From the EMT.”

“Thank you,” she replied with a shy smile.

Jordan cast a sharp glance at her, but she appeared oblivious to the agent’s appeal. Not that it was any of his business. Lucy could admire whomever she pleased. Jordan was protective of her, that was all. As a friend. While Westover was a good agent, he also had all the sensitivity of a toddler in a ball pit. She deserved better, that was all.

“Let’s get out of here before the press descends,” said a familiar voice from behind him.

Howard Karp slipped into the passenger seat, leaving Jordan to take the spot next to Lucy.

Karp was in his late fifties with graying hair and the kind of trustworthy face that sold reverse mortgages on late-night TV. He had five identical suits in his closet, one for each day of the week.

He stared at them over a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on his bulbous nose, then stuck out his hand and introduced himself to Lucy. “Apologies in advance. We need to get ahead of this thing quickly.” His gaze dipped to her leg and the ice pack she was pressing against her ankle. “Consider yourself in protective custody.”

Lucy swallowed. “Okay.”

“We’ll keep your name out of the press. The next few days are going to be busy. Is there anyone you need to call? Parents? Friends?”

“Uh, no. Not if it’s only a few days. But I need to call my work.”

“I’ll take care of that. We’ll send an agent by your house to pick up a few things.”

“No.” Lucy vigorously shook her head. “I need to go myself.”

“Not a good idea,” Jordan said. “We can’t risk exposure. Someone followed you this morning. There’s a chance they’re watching your house.”

“I need to go home,” Lucy said with a stubborn tilt of her chin. “They had a chance to kill me today and they didn’t. They can’t afford to. They need something from me.”

Jordan exchanged a glance with Karp.

She was smart—he couldn’t fault her for that. “Okay. We’ll separate into two vehicles, and only one of us will accompany you inside.”

“I got this one,” Westover announced from the front seat. “I’ll take her.”

“No.” A fierce possessiveness gripped Jordan. “This one is mine.”

He clenched his back teeth together. A stand-up guy didn’t let himself have feelings for his friend’s girl. There were unwritten rules. Jordan was alive because one of the hotel’s stone pillars had deflected the worst of the shrapnel. He was here with Lucy when Brandt should have been. Lucy needed a friend and a protector. This was about loyalty, not about his personal feelings.

“We’ll swing by your house, then.” Karp adjusted his glasses. “Can I get a look at the messages you received following the shooting?”

Lucy handed her phone over the seat.

“It’s from a burner account, I’m guessing.” Karp stared at the screen. “But we’ll check it out anyway. Local police are pulling all the surveillance footage from nearby businesses. If that doesn’t pan out, we’ll widen the net and canvass for doorbell cameras.”

“Even if you find something, it’s going to be useless,” Jordan said. “This guy was icy. Seven shots, fifteen seconds apart. All aimed above sight line.”

“A warning?”

“An order,” Jordan replied grimly, recalling the information he’d gathered. “We need to learn everything we can about the person who tried to access the information from Lucy’s employer, Consolidated Unlimited. I’ll contact her supervisor and see what they were after. I’ll also pull the security footage. Sounds like someone tried to impersonate her.”

Lucy stifled a yawn.

She caught his gaze and her cheeks flushed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m exhausted all of a sudden.”

“It’s the shock,” Jordan said. “If you can, close your eyes. It helps.”

“That seems impolite, somehow.” Her eyelids drooped and she rubbed her cheeks. “It’s like the adrenaline wore off and took all my energy with it.”

“It’s a common feeling.” Jordan gave a rueful laugh. “You were shot at this morning—you don’t have to worry about being rude.”

There was no way to predict how the brain might react to stress. People generally responded to shock in one of two ways—either they became jumpy and hyper, or exhausted and drained.

Lucy covered her mouth, her nostrils flaring as she stifled another yawn. “I used to get carsick as a kid. The medicine my parents gave me knocked me out. It’s like I’m conditioned to fall asleep when I’m in the back seat.”

The ice pack forgotten, she turned slightly, curled her uninjured leg beneath her and rested her cheek against the back of the seat. Jordan shifted. He was too cramped to get comfortable. Westover had jammed the driver’s seat as far back as the vehicle allowed, crowding Jordan’s knees.

Road construction had narrowed the highway to one lane, and a mile of headlights extended into the distance. Jordan angled his body to buy himself some leg room and stretched his arm across the seat.

Slowed to a crawl, Westover made annoyed noises and slapped his palm against the steering wheel. Karp kept his attention focused on a sheaf of papers in his lap. The minutes stretched out in silence and the hum of the engine was strangely soothing after what they’d been through that morning.

Soon Lucy’s breathing grew deep and even. Jordan wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but the next thing he knew, she was nestled into the crook of his arm. Conscious of his audience, he stiffened, but there was nowhere to go. Instead, he forced himself not to notice the soft brush of her hair against his skin or the way her head nestled perfectly in the nape of his neck. He ignored the jolt of awareness when she splayed her hand against his chest.

Karp swiveled in his seat. “Let her sleep. She’s still got a long day ahead of her.”

Westover’s curious gaze appeared in the rearview mirror. “Anyone else think it’s odd that her fiancé was killed and now someone is taking potshots at her?”

“Yeah.” Jordan’s gut twisted. “It’s worth a second look.”

The day of the bombing had started like any other. They were about to wrap up their surveillance, and Jordan was restless. Sometimes that happened at the end of a job. Sitting in the same room day after day, week after week, didn’t bother him until he knew it was almost over. That was when the walls started closing in around him.

Brandt had understood. He’d urged Jordan to visit the local market. It was their third assignment together, and he knew that Jordan always picked up something for his dad before going home.

Grab a silk scarf for me, will you? Jordan recalled the last words Brandt had said to him. Something with embroidery. Lucy’s favorite color is blue. Wanting to select the perfect shade, Jordan had lingered over the task.

“Everything about this is odd,” he muttered into the heavy silence. “Why target Lucy in the first place?”

Seven years on the job and not one of his installations had ever been discovered. Not until that day. And Brandt had paid with his life. What had they done wrong?

“Was there anything odd before the bombing?” Karp asked. “Anything that might be connected?”

A faded scene tugged at the edges of Jordan’s memory. The night before, he’d seen Brandt speaking with a woman in the hotel lobby. When he’d interrupted them, Brandt had said she was visiting from out of town and needed some advice on where to eat. Except something hadn’t rung true about the story.

Jordan shook his head to clear the memory. Was he reading into the chance encounter to assuage his own guilt?

“Maybe,” he said with a glance at Lucy. “I’m not sure if it means anything. We can talk more later.”

Karp adjusted his seat belt. “Here’s our working theory based on what little we know so far. Someone impersonating Lucy made a deal and didn’t deliver. Only the person on the other end of the deal—we’ll call him the buyer—doesn’t know he’s been double-crossed. Which means he’s pressuring the real Lucy to come through. Chances are, the fake Lucy has gone underground. Which means we have the perfect opportunity to set a trap.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Jordan said, unease skittering down his spine. Setting a trap meant leaving bait. “Not an option.”

The duplicate engagement ring weighed heavily in his pocket. A second Lucy. A second ring. What other secrets were in store for them?

“It’s the only way,” Karp said quietly. “Either you’re with us, or I’ll find someone else to take your place.”

Lucy’s platinum hair shimmered in the afternoon sunlight, and her subtle jasmine scent surrounded Jordan.

His head throbbed. “You know my answer.”

He didn’t like it—but there was no way he’d abandon her.

Because the only bait they had was Lucy.